


The Lion's Daughter

by bookwormfaith



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormfaith/pseuds/bookwormfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a room in his house England has a Wardrobe. Sometimes he likes to stand and trace the carvings on the door, and remember a Lion's roar</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion's Daughter

**Title:** ** The Lion's Daughter **

**Fandom:**  Hetalia/Chronicles of Narnia

 **Rating:** PG for mentions of death?

 **Warnings:** crack?

 **Disclaimer:** I apologise to CS Lewis for the mangling of his story to fit my own ends. Also to Himaruya Hidekaz for the mangling of _his_ characters. I will put them all back when I am done, promise.

 **Summary:** In a room in his house England has a Wardrobe. Sometimes he likes to stand and trace the carvings on the door, and remember a Lion's roar.

 

 

It is a cold grey English morning, and England stands in front of a set of graves. Buried here lie a whole family, save one - mother, father, sister and two brothers. Nearby is a cousin, a Professor, his lady and a family friend, all taken at once. The one remaining sibling stands beside him, on this, the anniversary of their deaths - one of the greatest train disasters of recent memory. Despite her age, she stands tall beside him, elegant and stern as a queen, still beautiful, even after all this time. They do not speak, keeping silent vigil here in the early dawn until the sun's rising. When the morning sun has burnt away the night's fog, England offers her his arm, and they break their fast at the local pub. They exchange small talk over their meal, simple meaningless pleasantries, until her daughter arrives to take her home. He tips his hat to her in farewell, and she gives him a graceful curtsy. This will, in all likelihood, be their last meeting. Next week, she is taking ship to America, to live with her daughter's family, now that her husband, too, is dead. As he watches the car carry her away, England feels a pang of loss. With her will go his last connection to a secret he has kept for several generations of his people.

 

It began in a time when famous detectives still worked out of Baker Street[i], and automobiles were only fanciful toys of the rich. When Imperialism was at its height and flight was still only a dream in America's eye. Magic had been growing scarce then, but one might still find a few lesser practitioners from time to time. Lesser, mind, so England had been thoroughly surprised when one actually managed to open a Door. And even more surprised by what came through it. Oh, she had been beautiful, cold and great and so very _very_ powerful. He had felt some of his own go through, and then SHE had come...and he had been terrified. _World destroyer_! His fairies cried and fled. _Kin-slayer_! One glimpse of her, triumphantly perched on the roof of a hansom cab tearing recklessly through London, so horribly, perilously _there_ and he had been sent reeling, pressed against the safety of the walls behind him, an assurance of his own reality. And then the Door had opened again and she was gone, though the chill of her presence remained. Troubled, he had locked himself in his room, away from his siblings, and sought the Door himself. Standing in the Wood he had breathed the green air and felt the worries of his life wash away.

 

_Into the green silence came a voice - a sweet childish laugh, and a low rumbling purr that shook the bones. Turning, England walked around the nearby trees and found the laughter's owner - a tiny baby girl, with honey gold hair and eyes as green as his own. A girl seated without any signs of fear between the paws of a lion, who looks up and pins him with great tawny eyes. England will never be able to say, later, what moves him to drop to his knees and bow his head. There is awe here, an instinctive acknowledgement that here is One greater than he, but no fear._

 

_"Be welcome here, Child of the Islands." The voice is deep and rich and wild, stirring something old and half-forgotten in England's blood. It stills him at the same time as waking him to full alertness._

_"Thank you, my Lord" The title comes without thought. Here is one, England's heart tells him, who deserves it, and everything that it implies._

_“Who is he, Father?” Unafraid, the child stands on uncertain legs, holding on to the golden mane for support._

_“He is your elder brother, child. Go and greet him.”_

_"Brother?" She looks at him curiously and takes a first hesitant step. "My brother?"_

_"My sister?" He answers her with wonder, and the first glimmerings of something that might be hope. "What's your name, little one?" Reaching out, he meets her halfway._

_"Brother!" Her laugh is contagious, the easy love of a child, as she tumbles into his arms. "My name is Narnia! Who're you?"_

_"England" He tells her, feeling something raw and painful in him ease for the first time in years as he hugs her back. "I'm England."_

 

Over the coming years he would watch her grow, maturing more like a human than a normal one of his kind, for her time ran different to his. In the green wood, he would meet her playmates and rivals - proudly beautiful Calormene, brash and headstrong Archenland, and the quietly terrifying Harfang among others. He would give her his own people to be her heroes, her Kings and Queens of legend. Some, she gave back to him, forever changed - majestic, just, gentle and valiant. England would be there to ease their transition back into his world, so much more subdued than hers, and in so doing bring back to his people something of the nobility of long ago. She would be a light for him, soothing some of the jagged holes that America left, a place of refuge during the harsh reality of two World Wars. He would be there to watch her grow from child to lady to queen, and in 1949, not even half a century to the day they first met, he would be there to watch her die.

 

England remembers the sudden sharp agony that struck at the moment of the crash, remembers the sudden urgent need to find his sister. Remembers stumbling through the Door only to find her pale and still beside a dry pool.

 

_"Brother" Her voice is faint and he stumbles to his knees beside her knowing it is too late. "England... I am sorry. It seems I have to go now."_

_"Narnia..." his voice fails him, but he lifts her carefully to hold her close. Despite the lack of obvious wounds, she is already growing cold._

_"I did not want to go without saying good-bye" She manages a smile for him. "Thank you for taking care of me. You were a most wonderful brother. I had a lot of fun."_

_"I will miss you." He manages to get around the lump in his throat._

_"Me too." A last whispering breath. "Good bye, England. Love you ..."_

 

_In death she reminds him of his own tales - Elaine floating downstream in her funeral boat **[ii]**, lovely and serene. He buries her next to the empty pool of her dead world, and then stumbles back to his own. He is confronted there with the television news of the train crash, and the tragic lone survivor of an entire family. When he has mourned them, he goes seeking her, and finds a Queen in mourning._

 

_It takes a long time before Susan acknowledges him, and longer still before she will speak with any ease about her family. By the time she is married with children of her own though, England knows she treasures the memories, and tells them to her children in turn._

 

Returning to his own home England walks through his house until he reaches an empty room with a large wooden wardrobe. This Door will no longer open, England knows, but he cannot help but step inside anyway. Pushing aside the fur coats that hang inside it, he resolutely ignores the lump in his throat when his hand hits the wooden back panelling and reprimands himself for his sentimentality. Purposefully clearing his throat he leaves and doesn’t look back. It is time to put this part of his life aside, he tells himself, and pretends that he does not hear the fading echoes of a Lion’s roar.

 

 

 

 

_**[i]** _ _“The Magician’s Nephew” explicitly takes place in the same universe as Sherlock Holmes. No, really, I took this line straight from there._

_**[ii]** _ _This would be Elaine of Astolat, see here:_ [ _http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elaine_of_Astolat_ ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elaine_of_Astolat) _(sometimes incorrectly known as her more famous double, “The Lady of Shallot”)_

**Author's Note:**

> Studying, as has been proven on MULTIPLE occasions, apparently makes me creative. So. This is, yet again another Hetalia crossover oneshot. Yes, again. This time, it's with Chronicles of Narnia. No, really. If anyone knows what they put in the water here to produce these kind of results in my head, PLEASE tell me. I would like to file a complaint about the thrice-bedamned Hetalia bunny that has taken up residence in my head and request that it kindly LEAVE MY CHILDHOOD FANDOMS ALONE SLAG YOU I REFUSE to write Peter Pan as Neverland's personification orz


End file.
